


The Sweetest Days

by 221b_hound



Series: Guitar Man [19]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gen, Musicians, Not John and SHerlock's, Schmoop, Sherlock and John have failed to discuss their retirement plans, Singing, Weddings, a little bit of angst, but mostly schmoop and fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-12
Updated: 2012-09-23
Packaged: 2017-11-14 02:38:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The title comes from this quote:<br/>"I believe the nicest and sweetest days are not those on which anything very splendid or wonderful or exciting happens, but just those that bring simple little pleasures, following one another softly, like pearls off a string.” – Anne of Avonlea by LM Montgomery</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. The Wedding: Saturday, 17 September 2039

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from this quote:  
> "I believe the nicest and sweetest days are not those on which anything very splendid or wonderful or exciting happens, but just those that bring simple little pleasures, following one another softly, like pearls off a string.” – Anne of Avonlea by LM Montgomery

It was a beautiful ceremony, very simple and very sweet. Chloe was done up in a gorgeous sheath dress, pearlescent fabric interwoven with the most delicate circuitry. When she walked down the garden path, strewn with rose petals from her father’s own garden, a cloud of holographic butterflies that looked perfectly real rose and swelled from the bodice and down to make a train.

Her mother, Molly, cried. So did her father, Greg. Chloe was their youngest of three, and while not more loved than her older brothers, she was in some ways more precious. Molly had nearly lost her, and Greg had nearly lost them both, but it all came good in the end. Better than good.

And here she was, 26 years old, marrying her fine young man, Armand Petrillo.

Greg and Molly knew that Armand was a fine young man for several reasons. One was that their smart, funny, talented and altogether marvellous daughter had chosen him, a jazz pianist, out of her many suitors, so he had to be worth it.

More practically, another reason was that her Uncle Sherlock had raked him from crown to tip-toes on first meeting him, subjecting him to the most piercing scrutiny, and pronounced very nearly fit to be in the same room as John Watson’s goddaughter.

A third was that John Watson had taken Armand to his favourite shooting range one Saturday afternoon and proceeded – without a single impolite or improper or even overtly threatening word spoken – to make it abundantly clear that any raw dealings on Armand’s part towards the treasured Chloe would be met with the severest rebuke.

To his credit, Armand took it all on board with a solemn expression and let it be known that he would rather cut off his own hand than be the cause of pain to that girl, while at the same time pointing out that Police Sergeant Chloe Lestrade Hooper was more than capable of severing the said appendage on her very own behalf, if it came to that. John was rather pleased with the reply, because he and Sherlock had gone to some pains to ensure the Lestrade clan, including their youngest, excelled at self defence in both armed and unarmed combat.

The final reason for such confidence in Armand’s suitability was that Mycroft Holmes had, very secretly, undertaken a full security check on the lad, and apart from a handful of the usual youthful indiscretions, was considered clean enough to join Mycroft’s own little band of public servants. If Mycroft’s service would have let him play jazz piano for his country. Which one day it would, but that’s another story.

Chloe got mad at all of them for daring to check up on her boyfriend, of course, because if they couldn’t trust her judgement, then _what the buggery fuck_?

John Watson had apologised to Greg and Molly every time they met for the next fortnight, because everyone knew where their precious Chloe had picked up her sweary soldier mouth. He’d been apologising for that unexpected gift to her since she was fifteen years old. The whole incident made Sherlock smirk rather, because it was so novel to not be the one needing to apologise for teaching the children in his life terrible habits. Not that he really ever apologised, really, for anything.

Though, that time, when he used the collection of sixteen different index fingers he had in the fridge to teach Chloe and Nicola how fingerprints were so different, that time he apologised, because Nicola’s father had broken his leg in almost direct consequence.  Tad Anderson had been shouting at Sherlock so loudly – something pointless about Nicola being _nine years old_ and _you have her playing with dead fingers_ and _I don’t care if she was wearing gloves, you prat_ – and then Tad tripped over the bucket of fingers and ice and slipped on the water and. Well.

Nicola actually screamed quite a lot after that, though Chloe, bless her, took notes in her crime scene notebook and then put an orange blanket – Sherlock and John owned several – and placed it around Nicola’s shoulders while they awaited the ambulance.  John’s timely arrival to sort out the debacle in the interim had been a relief.

But all that was in the past, and now it was a sunny September afternoon and Chloe and Armand were officially married, and Sherlock was glad the whole sentimental mess was half over, because really, it was very nice, and he was pleased for Chloe, yadda yadda, but he had things to do. Papers to sign. Books to pack.

Flatmates to ignore. Surlily. He wasn’t sure _surlily_ was a word. He’d look it up when he got home. But with surliness, yes it worked better as a noun than an adverb, and John would get annoyed and then they’d have it out and he’d find out what the hell John’s problem actually was.

But first, the reception, and the song and god, why couldn’t he work out why John was in such an almighty snit? Did he not want to retire? Had he not expressed the intent to retire? On several occasions? Fifty seven times in the last three months alone? Hadn’t he? _Hadn’t he?_

Of course he had.

So why the snit?

Sherlock glared across the aisle at where John was standing next to Mary, beaming at the Happy Couple as they pranced off to have photos taken. Mary caught his glare and waved cheerfully at him, before leaning to whisper in John’s ear. John flicked a disgruntled glance in his direction.

The Happy Couple passed his row, and Sherlock remembered to smile his proper smile for Chloe, then resumed glaring at John. John, impervious to almost all of Sherlock’s glares by now, simply leaned over to whisper something to Mary.

Sherlock distinctly overheard Mary call John an idiot, which pleased him. He liked it when he and Mary reached a consensus on John being an idiot. It didn’t happen often. Not as often as they agreed on John being three hundred kinds of brilliant. But he was also at least three hundred kinds of idiot. Better than everyone else’s ten thousand kinds of stupid, of course. But still.

An elbow nudged into his ribs drew Sherlock’s attention to his seating companion.

“Seriously, what are you two squabbling about this time?” Tad Anderson looked half amused. The bastard. That ludicrous infestation of a beard wasn’t making him look any more dignified with age. It may have fooled the board at the National Policing Improvement Agency, but Sherlock Holmes had seen Tad Anderson playing drums like a rock junkie on numerous occasions in the past, and he knew that _dignified_ was not part of Tad’s lexicon.

“We are not squabbling.”

Tad’s laugh emerged as a mild snort. “Of course not.” Sherlock scowled. Tad grinned. “You guys are hilarious.”

“Shut up, Anderson.”

“Hil. Ar. I. Ous.” Then Tad made a great show of zipping his grinning lips shut.

Sherlock curled a lip at Tad. Tad failed to supress a snigger.

By the time Sherlock turned to try to glare the snittiness out of John, John and Mary had disappeared, part of the crowd of wedding guests migrating towards the reception centre.

Damn.

Sherlock rose from the garden chair and followed swiftly in their wake. He caught up with them in the car park. John was waiting by their car, arms crossed, watching Sherlock walk across the gravel with a _definitely_ snitty expression. 

Mary, standing beside John, alternated between looking at John and looking at Sherlock, but with the same exasperated expression. Nearly sixty now, she was every bit as bright and vivacious as on the day John and Sherlock had met her. Hair greyer, face more lined, but still lovely with the sheer force of her _joie de vivre._

Sherlock’s initial misgivings had never been followed by the predicted significant disruptions to his partnership with John. Minor ones, naturally. It would have been unreasonable to expect no disruptions over thirty years. And he’d been fairly disruptive himself from time to time over the decades.

But Mary had remained a traveller and adventurer on her own, taking off on regular intervals with Nirupa D’Souza to work around the world, coming to London only three months in twelve, and those erratically. John often stayed with her when she was in town, but not always. He and Mary both seemed to like their space, their independence.  Even after Violet was born, John and Mary just went about things their own way, never marrying, just… being two bodies in close orbit, Mary had once said. The two of them seemed very happy with the arrangement.

All in all, Sherlock had grown to be quite fond of Mary, really. Anyone who made John happy was, by definition, tolerable.

“Well,” said Mary brightly, “I’ll see you at the reception. Let’s see if you two crazy kids can’t work yourselves out before you get there and have to sing. Your current matching death glares will kill the love song mood. And then Molly will have to hold you down while Chloe punches your lights out for ruining her wedding.”

John sighed. “Yeah. I get it. Talk like grown ups.”

“Well, you are getting on for seventy, love…”

“I’m _sixty eight_.”

“Old enough to know better is, I believe, the phrase we’re looking for, my dear. Off you go then.” Mary patted John’s butt to encourage him in Sherlock’s direction, then walked off. A car pulled up and Mary’s friend Nirupa leaned out of the window.

“Heading my way, sunshine?”

“Every time and all the time, Rupe!” Mary jumped into the passenger seat. Nirupa flashed the two men a smug grin, hit the accelerator and the car took off in a whoosh of compressed air.

Other cars around them rose into the air and zoomed off. One of the cars, containing Anderson and his family, including the grown up Nicola, paused so that Taddy could mouth ‘Hilarious’ at them through the closed window before moving on.

That left John and Sherlock standing in a car park, staring at each other. Sulkily.

“So,” said John.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at him. As an opening gambit it was a bit wasted. John had become inured to Sherlock’s eyebrows as well as his glares. Also his sulks, his silences, his rants and his scowls.

Sherlock sighed. “Please, John. Why are you angry with me?”

Ah. Sherlock’s last line of attack. The genuine, honest desire to understand what John was thinking, sought by simply asking. John had never had any defence against that.

“I’m not…  Sherlock, I’m not angry.”

“You have all the major signifiers of anger.”

“All right. Maybe I’m a little bit angry. I thought… I know we hadn’t actually discussed it, but I thought, when we retired, we’d…”

“What?”

“I don’t know. Stay at Baker Street?”

“Why would I want to stay at Baker Street?”

“Why would… because it’s home, Sherlock. It’s in London, where we can visit Mrs Hudson at her retirement hospice while she’s still with us. It’s close to our friends, to our families…”

“Our families are not generally located in London any more, John. At least one of them lives on another planet these days. Modern transport means that distance is relatively meaningless, in any case. Baker Street will still be ours, of course it will, and it will be right there for visits to the city. But I can’t keep bees in Baker Street, John. I told you about the bees. I’ve talked about it a lot.”

“I know. I know you have. I just. I didn’t think you’d go and buy a cottage without telling me. Plan to move out and move on without telling me.”

“I did tell you.”

“After you bought it. After you… made all those decisions. Without… me.”

Sherlock inspected John’s face. Thoroughly. All the tells and signs, so familiar after all these years. Really, it was incredible that Sherlock could still get John wrong from time to time. But he did. John was not the only one who was three hundred kinds of idiot from time to time. John wasn’t angry. At least, he wasn’t only angry. He was _hurt_.

“John, the only criteria I had for the cottage was about the bees. It’s all about the bees. I took nothing else into consideration until it was right for the bees. Only one place matched all of their criteria and then also our criteria, so I bought it.”

“Wait… what?”

“It’s perfect. The meadows are ideally situated for the variety of flora, for the climate, ambient temperature, everything the bees will need.  Upstairs is perfect for my room and my office. And your room and office are downstairs.”

“My room?”

“And office. On ground level. I know the stairs are getting difficult, with your hip playing up again. It has a porch. Facing west.  You like sunsets.”

“Sherlock. _My_ room?”

“Well, of course. I was hardly going to buy a cottage with only one bedroom, no matter how good the property was for the bees.”

“You bought the cottage… for _us_.”

“Well, obviously.”

“No, Sherlock, not _obviously_. One day you are talking about maybe taking up beekeeping, and the next you are showing me the deeds to your new home in Sussex without the slightest suggestion that I was supposed to be going with you.”

“Why wouldn’t you be going with me?”

John had that expression on his face, the one Sherlock privately thought of as ‘bemused guppy face’, with his mouth opening and closing a little, while his head made a tiny shake of disbelief and his eyebrows expressed a question mark.

“Sherlock, it didn’t occur to you that I’d want to stay at Baker Street?”

“Well, no,” Sherlock confessed, “The two flights of stairs are causing you considerable discomfort which is only going to get worse. You don’t sleep well, although you don’t complain, because of the noise from the new flight paths overhead and the neighbours over the road. You’re always saying how London is a young man’s city nowadays, and you’re not a young man any more. You liked Sussex when we were there two years ago for the Blessington case. Mrs Hudson’s in the hostel now, and you’ve told me on four separate occasions how difficult it is to get there by the tube and bus and how it would be easier to actually come in on a country line to see her, because it would get you more directly to the nearest station. This is not even beginning to cover the comments you make every time we get out of London that everything seems more peaceful and pleasant, and I notice you sleep better when we’re not in London. So no, John, it did not occur to me that you would want to stay at Baker Street for sentimental reasons when it will clearly be better for your health to move to the countryside with me, where you can write your terrible books to your heart’s content without all that noise disrupting your lamentable concentration and play your guitar on a porch while you watch the sunset, which I know for a fact you enjoyed when we stayed in that guesthouse in Cornwall.”

John blinked. His guppy look made a brief return then vanished under a rueful smile.

“Well, of course, when you put it like that…”

“There’s even another guest room,” Sherlock confessed grudgingly, “For anyone who may come to visit. One of the children, maybe.”

“This is sounding less like a cottage and more like a small country manor.”

“Not a manor. Largish cottage. All the mod cons. So. Are you coming to Sussex with me or not?”

John shook his head. Then he started to laugh, that infectious chortle that turned into a giggle. “Your capacity to go arse-about in these things shouldn’t surprise me any more, Sherlock. Not after thirty years.”

“You haven’t answered the question.”

“Yes, I’m coming to Sussex with you.  You can teach me about bees. At the very least, I can eat a lot of honey while I write the next instalment of our memoirs. You’re absolutely right about the flat. We’ll keep it on for visits to the city. Maybe one of the kids could take it on. Violet has to come down from the Mars base for a while every year to maintain bone density, after all. It’d be handy, if she wants a change from staying with her mum in Upper Volta or wherever she is when the time comes. Or Ford, when he’s on break.”

“If Mycroft lets him stay anywhere so common.” Sherlock’s nostrils flared in disdain.

“I hardly think Ford is going to let Mycroft dictate terms, do you? He’s a stubborn little beggar. Like his father.”

They gave each other a look then, and suddenly they were laughing again, tipping into that ridiculous giggle.

“Anderson’s right,” Sherlock said grudgingly, “We are hilarious.”

“We are idiots.”

“Yes. But don’t tell him I said so. He’ll preen about it all bloody month.”

“Or make it into a T-shirt.”

“Actually, I might wear that on a T-shirt.”

“I think we should get it tattooed onto our foreheads,” said John.

“Make sure you get it tattooed in reverse writing,” Sherlock said.

“Wh… oh. So we can read it in the mirror. Of course.”

“Of course.”

They grinned at each other a bit more, and then John happened to glance at his watch. “OH bugger! We’d best be off. We have to set up and sound check before they get back from the photo session.”

Sherlock flicked a tab on his keyring as he approached the car, and the roof folded back. Showing off how, even at sixty four, he was still lithe, he launched  himself over the low door of the vehicle and into the drivers’ seat. John, mindful of his hip and dodgy knee, took the more staid approach of actually opening the door.

“One day you’re going to do that,” said John, “And dislocate portions of your anatomy.”

“I’m not worried,” Sherlock said, grinning as he started the engine, “I happen to be very good friends with an excellent doctor who has been sticking bits of me back together for years.”

“He must be an idiot,” John said amiably.

“He is,” Sherlock agreed, “Though he’s the brightest idiot I know.”

John’s laugh came out as a snort. “Yeah, I’ve got a friend who matches that description too.”

At the reception, set up inside a huge marquee decked out in flowers and black and white ribbons arranged to look like piano keys, John and Sherlock managed to get their instruments out, tuned and sound checked in plenty of time. Taddy Anderson watched them wistfully, flexing his hand at the muscle memory of how they used to play, before the injury. Greg and Molly drifted over, having come in ahead of the rest of the photography party, Greg throwing his arm across Tad’s shoulders

“Those were the days, eh?” he asked. Greg was looking well, as well as happy, his years resting lightly on his form. He maintained that Molly kept him young. Molly, slightly plump and still with that adorable half-embarrassed smile and tendency to stumble over her words, leaned into Greg’s side.

The band had gone on for longer than any of them expected to, and had come in handy on the investigative side on more than one occasion, but life got busy, as it did. Collared had last played together as a band over six years ago. About the time Tad had been stabbed through the hand. At least he’d stopped Greg being stabbed in the face. On the whole, everyone preferred to have Greg’s face intact. Tad had been cited for bravery, too. He’d quite liked that bit.

Sherlock pulled the bow across the strings of the violin, adjusted the microphone and tried again. John flexed his hands, strummed a little, picked out a series of notes, then stretched his fingers again.  Not as flexible as they used to be, but they’d hold up for today.

Then Chloe and Armand came in, still in their wedding finery, and Sherlock played them to their seats with a lively gypsy tune that, for all anyone knew he’d made up on the spot.

A few speeches were made, which bored Sherlock to tears, but he behaved himself because he had learned a few things over the years, including the fact that if you made a scene on a woman’s wedding day, the woman – in that particular instance, Molly – would call you terrible and terrifyingly accurate names that would make John Watson blush. As he recalled, Mrs Hudson had also taken several strips off him.

Sherlock made a mental note to take a piece of wedding cake back for Mrs Hudson. He noticed Mary taking photos of the bridal table, as she had done at the garden ceremony, and made further note to get copies to take along. His Mrs H liked a good wedding, and her mind still appreciated all the details even if she couldn’t get her body very far these days.

He wondered briefly if she’d like to stay in the cottage guest room for a week or two, if she was well enough. Transport and even a nurse could be arranged. In the summer. The cold would be too much. The bees would not have produced enough honey by then, but he could get some from another local producer and make her toast with honey. Maybe not toast. Her teeth weren’t as good as they used to be. Tea with honey, then. Or a honey smoothie. Honey beer. Oh, that would be something to try. John would like that. Honey vodka, perhaps, he was sure there was a Russian recipe he could recreate.

“That’s us,” said John, interrupting Sherlock’s honeyed reverie, “We’re up.”

Sherlock nodded as John stood up and said some nice things into the microphone, about watching Chloe grow up, and what a pleasure it had been, and how lovely it was to have seen her and Armand growing together, and now they had all their lives… sentimental tosh, probably, though there was something else in it.  Something true.

John began to play, then sing, and Sherlock joined him.

 _Right turn fall down_  
You're there to pick me off the ground  
And I can't tell you how you've turned my world around  
  


Then John grinned at him, eyes sparkling with that something true, and Sherlock grinned back, realising at that moment what the true thing was.

_You come closer your blue eyes  
Have won me over and_

_I'll never be the same without you_

And that true thing was that it was the best thing, the very best thing, in the whole of life, to meet someone who could understand you and grow with you and then grow old with you. Not tosh at all.

_I thought you should know that you're my hero_

_Let's grow old together_  
With my heart in your hands and your hands holding mine  
We'll face the world together  
Cause you are the one I've been waiting to find

Growing old they were, but their hands on their instruments stayed strong and their voices steady, and they sang their wedding gift to all the happy couples.

 _Years turn us gray but my heart still jumps when you're next to me_  
I feel so safe cause you're still by my side on those cloudy days and  
I'm so amazed by...you

 

 


	2. The Anniversary: Part One - Saturday, 28 January 2040

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This schmoopy retirement fic is getting longer! And schmoopier! Only one more chapter to go, I swear.
> 
> It's almost 30 years to the day that John and Sherlock met at St Bart's. In celebration, their friends and family are gathering at their cottage in Sussex. Even dear old (and she really is quite old) Mrs Hudson will be there. 
> 
> Some remarkable things have happened over the decades. One of which is that John and Mary have a daughter. Another of which is that Mycroft has a son, Sherrinford. Sherrinford's mother will be there. As will, naturally, Ford's *other* father...

John Watson wandered from his new office into the living room of the cottage, a large package of papers in his hands. The envelope was postmarked early December, and he must have absent-mindedly thrown it in with the box of medical reference books he’d been packing at the time. He’d just unearthed it again.

From the kitchen came a ping, a loud pop, a cough and then smoke drifted across the open doorway.

“Sherlock?”

“It’s nothing,” wheezed the unseen Sherlock, a bit crankily.

“Of course it’s nothing. Has the nothing that it is set fire to the cottage yet, or just to you?”

“I’m fine. Everything’s fine. And the ambulance will be here shortly.”

John dropped the envelope and took off towards the kitchen at a gallop, pulled up short as Sherlock added: “Not for me. Mrs Hudson’s transport.”

“Oh. Yes. Right. And you’re sure you’re…?”

“I’m _fine.”_ A slight sizzle sounded from the kitchen and John caught a glimpse of Sherlock leaning backwards at a steep angle, expression wary and silver-grey curls looking slightly singed at the ends. “John?”

John knew what was coming. He stifled a sigh. “Yes, Sherlock?”

“We need a new microwave.”

“We have guests coming. You remember that, don’t you?”

“I am not _senile_ , John. I was simply…”

“Blowing up the household appliances in mysterious ways, your wonders to perform, as usual. Fine. I’ll call Greg, see if he can pick one up for us on his way down this afternoon.”

“And ask him to bring milk. And hydrochloric acid. And some framing wire and duct tape. And some epoxy. And sawdust if he can find it. This experiment for a honey-based wood glue is a failure.

“Honey based glue?”

“The concept is sound, if I could find a way to make it set, but ground porcelain didn’t work. It… blew things up instead.”

John didn’t want the details. He’d long since learned it was a mistake to ask, especially as asking often led either to disgruntled silence or, worse, to a live-action replay of the original disaster.

Nevertheless, Sherlock seemed to sense a question hanging in the air. “I’ve got an idea for the hive I want to try out while the bees are still in their winter cluster.”

“Won’t that…?”

“Not on the cluster itself, John, but I need time to perfect the design before the new queen hatches.”

“Fine, I’ll ask Greg for epoxy and sawdust as well.”

There was a crash and a curse from the kitchen. John paused, listening for act two of the mini drama, but it didn’t come. Satisfied that the crisis was within the usual standard of household expectations, John phoned Greg with the bizarre shopping list.

Greg laughed heartily when provided the list, and John waited patiently while Greg, not even having been told the reason for the list, shouted to someone at his end of the line: “Sherlock’s blown up another microwave!” Two male voices joined Greg’s laughter.

“The boys are home, I hear,” said John.

“Yep. They’re driving down with Mol and me. Chloe and Armand are coming in from Southampton. See you tonight.”

Then the doorbell rang. Sherlock emerged from the kitchen at last, mysteriously unblemished, though his hair oddly shorter at the front and on the left where he’d given himelf an impromptu haircut. Sherlock magnificently ignored John’s snigger and tugged the door open. He glared at the woman in the nursing uniform, then his gaze dropped down to the tiny figure in the wheelchair, and he smiled at her like an artless five year old.

Mrs Hudson smiled back up at him, her smile and eyes as bright as ever, framed by her wrinkled pale skin and sparse white hair.

“You’ve been exploding things in your face again,” she said knowingly, and giggled.

Sherlock bent to kiss her cheek. “You never used to think it was funny,” he said warmly. He had seen her only weeks ago, at Christmas, but each time he saw her these days it was like a particularly wonderful gift.

“It’s not my kitchen this time, Sherlock,” she said, “So now I can see the funny side.”

“Come in out of the cold.” Sherlock stood aside to let the nurse manoeuvre Mrs Hudson’s chair into the living room. 

Mrs Hudson’s impish grin was turned on John as he bent to kiss her as well.

“You’re looking well,” said John, taking her in with a doctor’s appraising eye.

“At my age, ‘not dead’ means I’m looking well,” she chided cheerfully.

The nurse cleared her throat a little meaningfully and since Sherlock was acting as though the woman didn’t exist, it was left to John to show her to the guest room, where Mrs Hudson and Nurse Kelly would be staying.

Sherlock positioned Mrs Hudson’s state of the art and extremely comfortable wheelchair by the fireplace, pulled up a footstool and sat on it so that their eyes were at a level. Her gaze travelled to the decorations on the wall and mantelpiece. Framed moving pictures of the Gladstone’s Collar gig at the festival; a poster of Collared with everyone costumed in collars of various kinds (Molly’s idea – and none of the men had quite realised what a galvanising effect that poster would have on their little hobby band’s followers); a leatherbound set of real paper editions of John’s books; other books and trophies and mementos of their eventful lives along with photographs of family and friends. Even the skull was still there.

Mrs Hudson regarded one picture of the two men in their prime, caught in a moment of insipient laughter, though no-one else around them seemed to get the joke. She drew her attention back to the elegantly aging man sitting by her chair.

“You look well,” she said to him.

“Given my former profession,” he deadpanned, “’Not dead’ means I’m looking well.”

“Silly boy.” She reached out a hand, soft with age and crooked with arthritis, to pat his head.

Sherlock regarded her thoughtfully. Perhaps it was the clear evidence of her years, or how that evidence didn’t seem to touch her eyes, or perhaps it was just that he had not fifteen minutes ago nearly set fire to his own head, but he became oddly sober. “It was a near thing, sometimes.”

“I know.” She stroked his hair again, smiling at him indulgently.

Sherlock leaned into the touch and closed his eyes. He wasn’t used to being so sentimental. On the whole he didn’t approve of it in himself, but for Mrs Hudson he would always make an exception. And for John, of course. Also, these days, for Ford and Violet, and even for Molly and Greg and… All right. Fine. He would admit it. He disapproved of sentimentality in general, but enjoyed indulging in affection in numerous specific instances. Even with Tad Anderson sometimes, though he’d die a painful death before he’d admit to that one. He was on his way to being an old man, but that didn’t mean he had to abandon standards entirely.

“I used to worry so much,” said Mrs Hudson after a moment, still stroking his hair, “I was afraid you would never make it this far. To retirement. Even after you met John. You were always so wild.”

“I was not wild.”

“You both were,” Mrs Hudson corrected him, “But you were good for each other.”

Well, there was no contradicting the absolute truth of that.

“You both settled more, after that dreadful Moriarty business.”

No contradicting that, either. The year in hell that had almost killed him on several occasions had changed him fundamentally; so had the phone calls that tethered him, that kept him going when he thought he couldn’t go on another day. So had the songs that John made for the two of them, before, during and after.

“I don’t think I ever thanked you,” he said softly, “For the song. The lullaby.” The Scottish lullaby that had as near as saved his sanity, when he’d been so alone. But not alone. Just far from the people who loved him. Whom he loved.

“Of course you thanked me,” said Mrs Hudson, “In your way.”

That struck Sherlock as being inadequate. His way was all well and good, but he was acutely aware of the faint tremor in her hand, the lines of her lovely face, the crackle in her aging voice, and he thought perhaps he should try thanking her John’s way. Twenty eight years late was better than not at all.

“Thank you,” he said, “For everything.”

Mrs Hudson stroked his grey curls and hummed a little of the lullaby and called him ‘silly boy’ and then ‘my boy’. Sherlock rested his cheek carefully against her blanketed thigh and closed his eyes, which is where John found them both as he brought tea out.

Mrs Hudson smiled up at John. “My boys,” she said, eyes crinkling, “I’m so proud of you both. No mother could be prouder.”

John pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. “We couldn’t have done it without you,” he promised her.

“You mean ‘thank you, Mrs Hudson, for never throwing us out even though we were the very worst tenants in London’.”

“That’s exactly what I do mean, yes,” John grinned. He settled a teacup in her hand and passed another to Nurse Kelly as she took a seat on the sofa.

Then Sherlock leapt to his feet, nearly upsetting tea all over everything, dashed into the kitchen and came back a minute later with a selection of honeyed cream pastries he’d bought especially. He reluctantly allowed Nurse Kelly to take one, but hoarded the rest for Mrs Hudson and himself. John had to steal one while Sherlock was busy dusting a crumb from Mrs Hudson’s blanket.

“I’ll make my own pastries when we have our own honey in the summer,” Sherlock promised, ignoring John’s snort of disbelief, because Sherlock never actually made _food_ in the kitchen.

After that, Sherlock launched into a long and very technical description of what was happening with the bees while they were in winter cluster, what would be happening to them in spring, and then summer, and his plans for building a hive through which he could more closely observe bee behaviour without affecting it, and his ideas for a honey based wood glue for holding the hives together, to see if that had any effect on honey production, and a good deal more besides.

John just watched them, the way Sherlock talked on and on about the blessed bees, and Mrs Hudson let him, feeling so glad and grateful that she was well enough to come for the weekend.

Another knock at the door, but John was hardly on his feet before the door was flung open and a tall young man, in his early twenties, with dark curly hair and coffee coloured skin swept into the room a dramatic flurry. His gaze swept around the room in what seemed to be a fierce scowl, taking in the nurse, the fireplace, the short man standing beside an elderly woman in a wheelchair, and a lanky man folded onto a stool beside her.

Then an impeccably dressed minor government official strode in behind the lad, followed by a compact black woman, both of them wearing forbidding expressions. She was snapping “Ford!” at the same time as the older man was saying “Sherrinford!” in a soft tone that was not in the least bit gentle.

The young Sherrinford rolled his eyes, pulled a face at the men by the fireplace and strode right on through the living room to Mrs Hudson, his coat snapping behind him. Oh yes, Sherrinford Holmes had dramatic flair aplenty.

“Mrs H!” he declared with boisterous affection, bent to kiss her cheek and snaffled the cream pastry she held in her fingers.

Mrs Hudson laughed and smacked him on the nose with a bony finger. “No manners at all, young man.”

“Of course I have manners,” he disagreed cheerfully, “Just not very good ones.”

And then he grinned down at Sherlock, straightened up to share the grin with John, and whirled to regard the nurse with intensity.

“Ah. The nurse. Recently returned from a holiday to France I see. Met someone there. Holiday fling. He won’t be calling you… though I see you don’t really expect him to. He bought you those earrings, though. A nice farewell gift.”

Nurse Kelly put down her cup of tea and gave Ford a very dark look.

“Ford!” said his mother again, the warning tone clear.

Ford finally had the decency to look sheepish. “Sorry, mum. Sorry Kelly.”

Sally Donovan sighed faintly, and failed to completely hide her expression of amusement. This was an old pattern, and she really oughtn’t find it as exasperating-slash-amusing as did. This playful version of their son still surprised her, after the years of introversion and awkwardness when he was little and felt so out of step with the world. He was still like that sometimes, when he was not being like his father. Or like his other father.

Sally reflected for a moment that her life was much stranger than she had ever imagined it would be. Much richer too. More everything, except dull. She glanced back at Mycroft and tilted a small smile at him. Mycroft sighed, but the corner of his mouth shifted. That was practically a grin on him.

“But am I right?” Ford asked Kelly quietly.

Cheeky little beggar.

“You know perfectly well you are,” said Nurse Kelly impatiently, “I sent you a postcard from Bordeaux, you insufferable brat.”

Ford’s grin just widened and he gave Kelly a kiss on the cheek. She rolled her eyes at him, then gave Mycroft a ‘you don’t pay me enough money’ glare.

“That’s enough Sherrinford,”Mycroft said, firmly, quietly.

“Boring drive down was it, Ford?” asked Sherlock, his voice lilting with amusement.

“Oh, you have _no idea_.”

“Oh, I think I have some. Come on. I’ll show you the beehives.” Sherlock unfurled from the stool to stand, of a height with Sherrinford. On to the door, Sherlock nodded a greeting at Sally, who nodded back, and he paused before Mycroft.

For a moment the two of them, Sherlock and Mycroft, looked like they would go into their old routine of verbal stab-and-scorch. There was always a brief moment of that, before they seemed to remember that other things had occurred in the intervening years and instead crooked curious smiles at each other. Like they’d already had a conversation just by appraising one another.

“Mycroft.”

“Sherlock.”

Then Sherlock lifted two winter coats from the rack – both his – handed one to Sherrinford and stepped outside into the crisp winter air.

Sherrinford fell into step beside Sherlock and questions tumbled out of him, about the bees in winter, about the meadow grasses, about Mrs Hudson’s health, about the explosion in the kitchen which had obviously taken place earlier in the day, about Violet and when she was coming, about the photograph he’d seen on the wall of John Watson in uniform, about the new books on the shelf and wasn’t it weird to be a character in those books, and he _was_ a character, really, not properly himself, though not too far, but Ford knows Sherlock and he knows John and he knows those stories aren’t strictly speaking accurate all of the time, and this coat is new, from the local shop, and the shopkeeper there has a crush on Sherlock, see, there’s the packet of sweets that Sherlock likes but never buys for himself because John has said he needs to cut down on the sugar, there in the pocket and…

And Sherlock let Ford ask everything in his head, and answered every question as succinctly as possible. He remembered being 24 and a brain that was never still, especially after several hours cooped up in a car. Sherlock remembered Mycroft finding the babble of questions and the endless physical restlessness endearing until Sherlock was a teenager, when it had stopped being endearing and started being frustrating. No wonder Mycroft seemed a little frazzled on arrival. It was their own younger lives on repeat.

Sherlock wondered if Mycroft ever regretted asking him to help him and Sally have a child, because this boy was so like Sherlock, except for the times he was so like Sally, and he was only a little like Mycroft, who raised him.

Ford stopped, held his breath. “Sorry. Sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“Dad says I talk too much. That I should listen more.”

“You’re listening all the time.”

“Yes,” agreed Ford, “I am.”

“Can you hear the bees?”

Ford leaned close to the hive; pressed his ear to the wood. Sherlock didn’t stop him. “I can hear something.”

Sherlock listened too. He wasn’t sure it was the bees. They were clustering together, sharing heat to survive the winter. It was one of the things he wanted to learn. _Can I hear the bees or is it the wood or the air?_

“Do you think he minds?”

Sherlock straightened and blinked at Ford, who was staring back at the cottage.

 _Does Mycroft mind that you turned out more like me than like him?_ Because it was an open secret. Everyone, including Sherrinford, knew that Mycroft was Ford’s father and that Sherlock was his donor father. For Sherlock, it was more of a wonder that Sally had ever agreed to it, though by then their status as enemies had suffered considerably. It was hard to keep loathing the person who had saved your brother’s life.

“No,” replied Sherlock after a moment, “But I think he’s afraid for you sometimes.” Ford looked at him. “I was … difficult. At your age.”

Ford nodded. “I know.”

“He told you?”

“I… deduced.” Ford stamped his feet to warm up and huffed misted breath in front of his face. 

“You know if things get difficult, you can come here. Any time.” Sherlock reached out to pat Ford’s shoulder. It was so strange, being a father, even only a sort-of father, nothing like he’d ever imagined it would be. It was more terrifying, for a start, and Ford had made Sherlock desperately frightened on more than one occasion. Sometimes, because Sherlock could see how alike they were, and he knew himself too well to think that an entirely good thing.

Ford blinked brown eyes at his other-father’s silvery ones, the edges suddenly crinkling in a smile. “I’ll be all right. I’m going to Mars.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened.

“Not for Violet,” Ford pulled waved a hand dismissively, but then laughed, an uncomplicated, happy sound, “Though the fact that she’s there is a bonus. But the terraforming team, Sherlock. The work they’re doing is amazing, and requires so many branches of science. Chemistry, physics, engineering, botany, whole ranges of bioscience and astronomy. At last, something to give me _scope_.”

For a moment, Sherlock wondered if he might have to bother learning about that astronomy business that John was always teasing him about, for Ford’s sake. “Does Mycroft know?”

“Of course.”

“Does Sally?”

Ford nodded. “But she knows I’ll have to come back every month or two.” To combat the effects of low gravity and space flight on the human body. John and Mary’s daughter, Violet, an intern in space medicine on the Mars base, already made the same trip several time a year. “Mum seems okay with that.”

The sound of a car pulling in to the driveway on blasted air drew their attention, and a moment later a dark haired figure was running pell-mell over the grass at them, arms outstretched, yelling “Sherryyyyyyy!!”

Ford took off like a heat-seeking missile and met the young woman half way, and they grabbed each other, spinning and laughing, like a pair of idiots.

Sherlock raised his hand in greeting to Mary Morstan, standing more sedately in the driveway next to her friend-and-colleague Nirupa D'Souza. Nirupa was shaking her head at the two embracing idiots in the meadow. She said something to Mary.

“Violet!” shouted Mary, “Your Aunt Nirupa says you’re making her dizzy!”

“ _She’s_ dizzy?” Violet yelled, “I’m a living _centrifuge_!” Ford was still spinning Violet around, before they both staggered to a stop and leaned, hiccupping with laughter, against each other.

“You _nutters_ ,” Mary called out to them affectionately.

Sherlock watched as the cottage door opened and John marched out, his brisk pace just a mite short of running, and scooped Mary up in joyful greeting. They kissed, and Sherlock’s gaze met Nirupa’s across the meadow, sharing their long-suffering ‘these public displays are so unseemly’ expressions, which they had been making at each other for years now. It gave them something to look at besides their best friends snogging like teenagers.

Which, incidentally, appeared to be what Ford and Violet were doing in the middle of the meadow too, though with much less intensity. It was like they were still new at it.

Sherlock jammed his hands in his coat pocket and took long strides back to the cottage, saying as he passed them, “Whatever you get up to, don’t upset the bees.”

Sherlock found that he felt much less uneasy about Ford’s future, knowing there was very obviously a Watson in it. Violet would have his boy’s back, in the finest tradition of Watsons and Holmeses.

By early evening, the cottage was overflowing with people. Greg and Molly had arrived, with a new microwave in tow but no sawdust. When Sherlock expressed his low opinion of Greg’s hunter-gatherer skills, Greg and Molly’s boys, David and Chris, declared it a challenge and swore they’d find some on the morrow or die trying. Sherlock told them off for using hyperbole. Chris and David promptly started making up a song using the words ‘hyperbole’, ‘sawdust’, ‘quest’ and ‘you idiots’ until Sherlock gave up in despair and went to fetch his violin in the vain hope it would shut them up.

Someone else called out for pizza and John brought out his guitar, and soon there was a concert going on, old songs from Gladstone’s Collar and Collared, with not only Greg and Molly but everyone joining in with harmonies. Chris and David provided ad hoc drumming by slapping their thighs and even a few songs John had never played with the band, but that he and Sherlock clearly knew well, had obviously played them together for years.  For some reason they had decided tonight was a good night to share them.

Taddy, Sally Donovan thought, would be so annoyed he’d missed them. His expression always lit up like a bonfire whenever he discovered a new John Watson song.

Sally sensed eyes on her, and glanced up to meet Greg’s gaze. She nodded at him, and he nodded back. She still had no idea if she’d redeemed herself in his view, but she felt she may have redeemed herself in her own, and she had learned to accept that as enough.

Then she turned her head to watch Ford, who had finally stopped jittering and bouncing and talking at a million miles an hour, leaning against Violet like she grounded him somehow. She watched Violet trace calming circles on the skin of Ford’s ankle. Sally was a little jealous, she supposed, that Violet had always been able to do that for her boy, but even more than jealous, she was grateful. If she had known that her son would turn out to be every bit as strange and erratic and even tormented as his biological father, she would….

… have made exactly the same choice, she realised, her gaze shifting to Mycroft. What an odd life. What odd choices she had made, though what good ones, it turned out eventually.  She could have done without nearly dying, of course, and without the always-aching scar in her shoulder, the souvenir of a stab wound on that awful day, which could have been much more awful because Mycroft had nearly been killed too. Who would have thought that she and her boss would have become so much more; found so much common ground; made this mad life together.

Mycroft caught her looking, and his mouth lifted in a genuine, open smile this time. She knew he disliked this music, but that he was sentimentally attached to it as well. He had told her once, when she first began to work for him, that this music had turned out to be his brother’s salvation. Sally always thought that it was John who had been Sherlock’s salvation, but the three were inextricably bound: the music and John and Sherlock.

The lyrics to this song seemed to resonate particularly.

_Swords are remade in the fire’s heart_

_Steel is retempered if it comes apart_

_A blade becomes sharp again_

_The metal reforged by a friend_

This room, Sally thought, was full of remade people. People who had found a friend to help them to build something new. Greg and Molly. John and Sherlock. Mary and John, too. Mary and Nirupa, for all she knew, and even Violet and Ford. Tomorrow would bring Tad, who had maybe changed the most radically, thanks to John and the band. Except possibly for herself. Sally hardly recognised who she used to be. She didn’t miss her old self at all.

Sally shifted to sit closer to Mycroft. She lifted his hand – his lovely hand that was starting to ache and grow fragile with age – and kissed his fingers.

_And I’m awake again_

_And singing and flying_

_I’m alive because you remade me_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song quoted at the end of the story is [Reforged](http://archiveofourown.org/works/509602) which John wrote for Sherlock. (John writes almost all of his songs for Sherlock.)


	3. The Anniversary: Part Two - Sunday, 29 January 2040

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the actual day of the 30th anniversary of their meeting, Sherlock and John's cottage in Sussex is packed to the gills. Violet and Ford congratulate themselves on a wise decision. Mary and John giggle more than you think two people in their 60s should. John's sweariness gets him into trouble. Sherlock is accidentally nice to Tad, but they sort that out quick smart. Toasts are made. Songs are sung. John and Sherlock exchange gifts, but the gift of words they give each other is better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we come to the final part of the schmoopy retirement fic, with extra schmoop. It is jam packed full of too many characters, and ridiculous things, and schmoop. It contains giggling, music, Sherlock being a scarecrow, John getting embarassed, both of them stirring their friends, and bee references.
> 
> "I believe the nicest and sweetest days are not those on which anything very splendid or wonderful or exciting happens, but just those that bring simple little pleasures, following one another softly, like pearls off a string.” – Anne of Avonlea by LM Montgomery

Mary Morstan stepped out of John’s bedroom at 7am on Sunday morning, her feet chilly against the carpet, her hair a tangled bird’s nest. Her smile was extremely smug.

The first image that greeted her eyes was that of her twenty five year old daughter, Violet, lying on her back on the floor, legs propped up on the sofa, an ear bud plugged into one ear. The other ear bud of the set was inserted in the ear of Sherrinford Holmes, lying on the floor beside Violet, his legs also up on the sofa. His feet were bouncing in a counter rhythm to the faint doof-doof that Mary could hear emanating from the ear buds via the music player that rested between them.

Ford and Violet were not holding hands. Instead, Violet’s left hand was burrowed under Ford’s T-shirt, rubbing his belly in a soothing motion. Ford’s right hand was resting on Violet’s hip, just above her flannel pyjama bottoms, his fingertips tapping out a rhythm syncopated with the one his feet were twitching.

“I thought you stayed with your parents at the hotel, Ford,” said Mary.

Ford opened his eyes and stared, startled, at his girlfriend’s mother. Violet’s hand stilled briefly, then began patting Ford’s stomach again. It was a soothing ritual the two of them had been doing ever since Ford was four years old, Violet five, and Ford’s hyperactive mind resulted in stomach aches.

“I did,” he said, “But I couldn’t sleep. Too much…” he waggled his fingers near his temple, “Too much. So I walked here.” At her raised eyebrow he added, “It was only ten kilometres. A good walk. I ran some of it.”

Violet gave her mother a grin that was half challenge, half plea. “He only got here an hour or so ago, and he was freezing.” She indicated the duvet bundled up beside Ford.

“Then I got too hot,” he said.

“We were just listening to some of Dad’s old stuff,” said Violet, her expression morphing into a new mixture, of defiance and slight horror, “We had to kill the noise of your morning callisthenics somehow.”

Mary snorted an inelegant laugh. “Hardly callisthenics at our age, love.”

Violet wrinkled her nose. “It still needed the full force of _Cry for Help_ to save me from being scarred for life.”

“That song,” came her father’s sleepy voice from behind Mary, “Usually _causes_ the havoc.”

Violet rolled her eyes. “Yes, we know. Onstage brawl. Golf ball assault followed by a stampeding cow. That time the stage caught fire. Molly going into labour. We’ve heard all the stories.”

John scraped his fingers through his white-and-grey hair, pretending nonchalance, and that he hadn’t heard Violet’s comments about callisthenics. Mary just laughed and kissed his temple, whispering in his ear afterwards: “Not an athlete any more, but very thorough and extremely satisfying all the same.”

He grinned, his ears went pink, and he vanished into the kitchen to make tea. Mary was at his heels and a moment later there was giggling.

“Scarred!” Violet shouted after them, “ _For life_!”

Beside her, Ford placed a hand over hers, still on his belly. “You were right,” he said quietly, “About not having sex in the living room.”

“I know. Damn it all the same.”

“Yes, damn it all the same.” He grinned at her, and she rolled onto her side so they could kiss.

“Scarred!” said her mother loudly, “ _For life_!” Then Mary giggled. Ford and Violet opened their eyes again to see Violet’s parents bearing mugs of tea. Mary looked delighted. John was half way between some kind of death glare and indulgent affection.

“Don’t Dad,” sighed Violet, “His intentions are pure. Aren’t they, Sherry?”

“Yes, sir, they are.”

Mary grinned impishly. “But are Violet’s?”

John sighed, handed over tea to the troublesome children, and plunked himself down on the sofa between the two of them.

“Spoilsport,” said Violet.

“I learned from the best,” John retorted, sipping his tea. He would never intentionally use the term ‘cockblocker’ in front of his daughter, but she knew what he meant anyway. Sherlock’s ability to drag her Dad away from a date was legendary. Her mother and Nirupa told hilarious stories about it. Sometimes, Violet thought, it was a miracle she’d been conceived at all.

John and Mary might have agreed, but not for the reasons Violet thought. The Sherlock-John-Mary-Nirupa dynamic was something rare, that few people really grasped. It was the story of two sets of non-sexual lifemates, in which one person from each partnership carried on a torrid, 27-year affair with one another. John and Mary had in fact tried being traditional, tried living together in normal domestic bliss in a London flat. Within a month they were irritated. Within two months they were nearly driving each other around the twist. Domesticity was clearly not their thing.

 

Just before the whole situation reached crisis point, with them vowing never to see each other again, Mary had taken up a new civil engineering contract in Vietnam, Nirupa by her side, while John had gladly and even desperately taken up Sherlock’s summons to join him in Croatia for a complicated case. It was with an enormous sense of relief that John and Mary had mutually agreed to go back to the way things had always been, seeing each other as often as possible around their lives with Sherlock and Nirupa respectively, encouraging one another’s independence and sense of adventure without needing to adventure together. They liked different kinds of adventures, after all.

Violet was the main adventure they’d had together. It hadn’t been easy, but it had been completely worthwhile, raising her jointly, though rarely in the same geographical space. Violet had seen each of her parents almost every day, either in person or through video conference, and grew up surrounded by love. From a young age she liked to boast that she had two mummies _and_ two daddies, and how could any kid miss out with so many people to twist round her little finger?

Mycroft, Sally and Ford had quickly formed part of her extended, scattered family. No, Violet’s parents hadn’t lived together, but she had never felt abandoned or unloved or alone. On the contrary, she was possibly the most adored child on the planet, even if she took it for granted.

John regarded Ford, still lying on the floor next to Violet, eyes closed, a smile on his often too serious face. John felt a swell of love for those two kids, and for how his daughter, who had loved poured into her from everyone she knew, from the very first breath she’d taken, in turn poured so much of that love into her friend. Boyfriend, now, obvious to anyone with eyes. Ford was beloved too, but his parents had more circumspect ways of showing it. There was nothing circumspect about Violet’s demonstrative affection.

“Do your Mum and Dad know where you are?” John asked Ford around sips of tea.

“Texted them.” Ford’s fingers were twitching in the air now, conducting some flow of music or thought with tiny gestures.

Satisfied that Mycroft was not soon to be sending a crack team of agents out to scour the countryside – like as not headed by his determined and occasionally frankly terrifying wife, when it came to her family – John relaxed. Mary went off to shower. Ford and Violet resumed the ear bud sharing.  When they started singing along to Copper Beaches, he grinned and went to join Mary.

In due course, John and Mary emerged bathed and dressed and possibly smugger than ever before retiring to the kitchen to make breakfast and giggle some more. Nurse Kelly rose and, with willing and tender help from the sleepover buddies, got Mrs Hudson out of bed, into her wheelchair and in front of the morning fire.

Chloe and Armand arrived, and were greeted with kisses and hugs, and apologies from Violet (now dressed) for missing the wedding (unable to get away from Mars earlier, and it was either the wedding or the anniversary). Nirupa then arrived from her motel, as did the rest of the Lestrades. Mycroft and Sally arrived with fresh croissants to contribute to the breakfast feast.

Eventually, Sherlock made an appearance – in his dressing gown over thin pyjamas and his hair every which way – and he plummeted through the living room (stopping for half a second to drop a kiss onto Mrs Hudson’s head and steal her croissant) and tore outside in his slippers like he was chasing a jewel thief through the Embankment with an assassin on his tail.

Most of the Lestrades followed him to the door and watched with avid interest. When the shouting started – which sounded in tone if not in actual words like ‘you kids get off my lawn’, only with more mention of bees – more members of the household drifted to the yard to see what was going on.

Mycroft merely helped himself to another croissant while Violet gave hers over to Mrs Hudson, who was scolding the absent Sherlock for pastry theft.

John, with a gentle eye-roll, simply continued to consume his bacon and eggs with the military precision he had applied to his meals for decades. He didn’t abandon food for anything less than bloodcurdling screams or actual wounds. Or, obviously, Sherlock telling him they were needed urgently somewhere. That went without saying, though it didn’t happen very often any more.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, Sherlock came back in, a small child in his arms, to whom he was explaining some intricacy about hives and boxes and how touching might lead to stinging and that would be quite bad for the bees and not actually very good for little boys either.

Sherlock deposited the boy an appropriate distance from the fireplace and turned to find John, having efficiently disposed of breakfast, risen and swept up Ford’s abandoned duvet, throwing the said duvet over Sherlock’s shoulders.  Sherlock, who had begun to shiver from racing outdoors in the middle of winter in his inadequately warm nightwear, simply drew the duvet closely around his shoulders and scooped up John’s unfinished tea. He took a slurp and pulled a face.

“It’s not how you take it,” said John, retrieving the cup, “Because it’s _not your tea_.”

Sherlock pulled a face to indicate how very irrelevant that was before disappearing, duvet and all, upstairs to avail himself of his en suite bathroom.

John counted himself lucky that Sherlock had done so rather than using the downstairs shower, because Sherlock was still just as likely to parade around in nothing but a sheet and a fierce expression as in a suit. More than one client over the years had been a little startled by the casual dress code at 221B. On one memorable occasion, Sherlock, wearing nothing but a pair of green speedos and a single white sock, had run through the kitchen, onto the landing and smack into the arms of Mrs Hudson escorting a commissionaire carrying what had turned out to be a remarkable goose carcass. There’d been a good reason for Sherlock’s state of undress at the time, though John for the life of him couldn’t remember what it was.

With that little exhibition over, John joined in the general greetings as Tad Anderson, his wife Charlotte and daughters Nicola and Teresa crowded into the room. The little boy that Sherlock had rescued his bees from was Nicola’s three year old boy, Barton. Barton was spinning in circles in front of the fire, making buzzing noises.

“…said he looked like Worzel Gummidge,” Tad was saying to Greg, “And he said ‘who’? and Bartie told him ‘he’s a scarecrow’ and Sherlock just looked at himself in his pyjamas and slippers and stuck his fingers in his hair like he was surprised it looked like an explosion in a ball of wool, and said ‘Scarecrows keep birds away from crops. I’m a scareboy. I keep boys away from bees’.”

“Bees!” yelled Bartie approvingly. “ZzzzzzZZZZzzzz.”

Greetings and retelling of the Sherlock Scarecrow story continued apace until Sherlock returned, appropriately dressed for company. Sherlock spotted Tad standing a little apart from the happy crew, regarding the Trophy Shelf with a tender expression.

The Trophy Shelf contained an odd assortment of things, including the skull, a Persian slipper, a strange horseshoe that looked like a cattle hoofprint, a South American poison dart pipe and a two mismatched baby booties.

More conventionally, the eye-level shelf boasted a single slender volume titled _The Art and Science of Deduction_ by one Sherlock Holmes, and a leather bound, real paper folio set of John’s five books to date, from the first, _The_ _Adventures of Sherlock Holmes,_ to the latest, _The_ _Casebook of Sherlock Holmes_.  The books had been massive international best sellers in several languages, and these days John Watson was quite comfortably off, thank you very much.

Sherlock still made scathing remarks about John’s terrible writing, and from time to time John very pointedly bought Sherlock expensive presents and pieces of lab equipment with tags reading ‘a gift from the royalties of the fourth French edition of _The Return of Sherlock Holmes_ ‘ or ‘brought to you by another generous film option on the story of _The Beryl Clarinet’_.

The thing which had caught Taddy’s fond attention was none of these. It was a new addition to the shelf.

The item was a large chrome and plasti-glass document box, a few centimetres high, partitioned in two. On the left side, the top could be lifted and hinged at an angle, allowing digital text to be read comfortably on its matt surface. The right-hand side of the box was built to allow the top to flip up, creating an L-shaped area where 3D holograms could be projected.

The sides and lid of the box were embossed in gold with the words _The Science of Deduction: The Holmesian Method_ , and below that, in a smaller font, _An Analysis by_ _Thaddeus Anderson_ and then, in slightly larger font again, _Forward by Sherlock Holmes_.

Sherlock looked at Taddy looking at the contemporary textbook and for the first time in a long time bit his tongue on a disdainful comment. Disdain was his default position with Taddy in general, except that everyone knew he didn’t really mean it any more. The pair of them bickered amiably, and were waspishly polite (or politely waspish) with one another. Sherlock called Tad an idiot; Tad called Sherlock an obnoxious prat.  They’d roll their eyes at each other and lightheartedly declared one another insufferable.

And yet they had worked together for three years to create this thing of sharp scientific edges and sharper intellect and – they both sincerely but privately hoped – illumination for those who had never seen Sherlock Holmes shine his light into dark places for themselves.

Sherlock wouldn’t exactly claim to be proud of this book, but then he wasn’t unhappy with it either. He wouldn’t say so even under torture, but he’d become impressed with Tad Anderson’s crusade to pin down his deductive methods and turn them into something that could be conveyed to lesser minds.

Twenty eight years ago, when all the world but a select few had thought the great detective dead, Tad had drawn up a ten page checklist, trying to replicate the extraordinary feats of observation and analysis that the lost genius could  have done in a handful of moments. Anderson had been trying to prove something to himself and to John Watson back then, and to make amends. Now here he was, a professor at the National Policing Improvement Agency, the course he’d long taught as an elective finally a mandatory component of police training. _The Science of Deduction: The Holmesian Method_ was the text book he had created with Sherlock’s acerbic assistance.

Of course nobody could actually _do_ what Sherlock did, not even with this kind of training. Sherlock and Tad had argued over whether the book would be any use at all. But even Sherlock had to concede that of course what he did was not magic, and therefore it could be broken down into its component parts, made quantifiable. Tad argued that doing exactly this had made him a better policeman. He knew he was hardly a blip on the Holmes horizon, but he had improved. The Holmesian method was something people could strive for.

Sherlock walked through the boisterous and crowded room to contemplate their achievement at Tad’s side. Tad flicked a glance up at him but said nothing. Sherlock didn’t even look at Tad. He reached out, though, and switched on the power, tapped a few keys. The splash page, with the name of the text and the author, appeared on the left. Another tap and a hologram appeared on the right, recreating a crime scene in vivid, devilishly small detail. Even sound and scent were replicated. A few swipes of Sherlock’s finger in the interactive image highlighted minutiae of information, showing how they fit together to form conclusions that seemed like magic if you left out the intervening steps. Showing how Sherlock Holmes had solved hundreds of cases, provably, demonstrably, and unequivocally genuine.

“The Study in Pink,” said Taddy.

“Yes.”

“I was a moron.”

“Yes,” agreed Sherlock, because he absolutely failed at socially necessary lying almost all of the time. Tad sighed, agitated but otherwise resigned. “But you got smarter,” said Sherlock after a moment. “You have become…” he sought for words both accurate and kind, “Quite creditable at the deconstruction of the process.”

Tad blinked. He was fairly certain – absolutely positive in fact – that this was the first thing that sounded like a compliment that Sherlock Holmes had ever said to him, if you didn’t count ‘You are a very competent drummer; you should give up forensics’. But the knife wound to his hand, severing bone, muscle and tendon, had put an end to drumming for good. It was just as well he’d already turned to finding the patterns and rhythms in Holmes’s approach to forensic evidence.

“Um. Thank you.” Tad only just managed to quell the upward inflection on that.

An awkward moment followed, in which neither of them knew how to continue.

“That beard is ridiculous Anderson. It doesn’t suit you,” said Sherlock at last because, honestly, someone had to save face around here.

“And your hair looks like someone stapled an angry sheep to your head,” riposted Anderson, grateful for the return to normality.

Both men hid brief smiles and turned back to the party. Tad wandered over to see how Sally was doing and then, uncomfortable with Sally’s creepy husband’s rather intense stare, retreated to the more comfortable circle of his wife and daughters. He overhead Sally scolding affectionately, “Mycroft, don’t. That was a long time ago.” 

 

This whole thirtieth anniversary thing was never meant to be anything very formal. It had started out as Greg’s joke that day on Chingford Plains, but the joke had been made every year, until it had become an expectation. Thirty years after John and Sherlock had met at St Bart’s to become flatmate and the scourge of the criminal classes, there would be a party.

The cottage wasn’t big enough to accommodate a giant communal table and it was far too cold to be outside. All it was, really, was a massive group of friends colonising a house for the weekend. People broke up into pockets of discussion in the living room, in the kitchen, in John’s office, on the porch (for those willing to brave the chill).

In the kitchen, Greg and Molly installed the new microwave. Ford and Chloe immediately started pulling the guts out of the old one, Ford with the stated intention of building a prototype something-or-other, while Chris Lestrade supervised and made ludicrous and scientifically improbable suggestions.

The Lestrade boys had brought their guitars this time, and Violet rummaged in her overnight case until she found her flute. It turned out Mycroft had packed Ford’s keyboards after all. Besides the flow of music and food, there were stories. Lots of stories, many of them quite embarrassing for one or more of the attendees. Good natured ribbing was _de rigeur._

Barton began to do bee impersonations again, and Sherlock crouched down to teach the child a few of the finer points of the different kinds of buzzing bees could make. Barton appeared to listen intently and did his best to mimic the sounds.

 

“That reminds me,” said Greg to the room at large, “What precisely are you going to be doing with all this retirement time, John? Sherlock’s got a lifetime study of bees ahead. What are you going to do with yourself now you won’t have to keep his butt out of the fire all the time?”

John grinned. “You make a very big assumption about fires and Sherlock’s behind staying separate,” he said. “We still get letters and requests, you know.”

“Most of them unutterably tedious,” said Sherlock grumpily before returning to Barton’s tuition.

“Actually, a good half of them I can actually answer myself. I do sometimes.”

“And there’s his literary and music empire to run,” Mary added, “I think he’s busier now than he used to be.”

John shrugged. “The books sell well, and there could even be four or five more, if I feel like it. I’m going through all the old case notes and sorting them out. Some of them will never see the light of day, of course.”

“Stories for which _the world is not yet prepared_!” declared David Lestrade with doom-laden emphasis.

“Or for which the government is not yet prepared,” said Greg with a sly look at Mycroft.

“I can neither confirm nor deny your speculations,” said Mycroft mildly, but he crinkled his eyes in a smile at his wife, who laughed in a not-quite-safe way, which only made his smile widen.

“You should write your own memoirs,” declared Taddy, “You own story, I mean.”

John shook his head. “Nobody’s interested in that.”

“Are you kidding?” said Greg, “Kid with a tough background becomes teen rock star, and on the verge of fame, gives it all up for medicine and the army, decorated for bravery twice on the battlefield, invalided out, meets the premier genius of his generation, then goes on to be a crimefighter for another 30 years.  Who wouldn’t want to read that?”

“Me,” said John and Sherlock simultaneously.

“You’re too modest,” said Molly.

“I’m not modest,” said John in mock outrage, “I am balls-out, brass nuts, fucking amazing.”

“BAWZOUT BRUSSNUT FUUCKEN MAZIN!!” agreed Barton at the top of his lungs, arms in the air, jazz fingers wriggling in delight.

For a split second, the entire room fell very, very, very quiet. There were gasps, dirty looks, shocked stares. Some people tried not to laugh. Some of them almost succeeded.  And Sherlock Holmes and Violet Morstan Watson did not even pretend to try, and roared with laughter so hard that Sherlock had to sit down and Violet’s eyes were watering.

John, meanwhile, simply sank his face into his hands, muttering. “Sorry. God. Sorry. Sorry Nicola. Charlotte. Tad. Teresa. Oh god. Sorry.”

“John Watson: corrupting children’s minds and language since 2015,” said Mary with patient affection.

Nicola regarded John with a mother’s stern gaze and said: “The first swear you taught me by accident was ‘what the bollocking fuckery’. I was seven.”

John groaned. Barton looked very much like he was going to repeat that phrase too. Sherlock was looking at the child with an air of expectation, like he was looking forward to this development, but Barton only said ‘BzzzZZZZZzzzoooooh’, as per his last bee-talk instruction, and the moment passed.

“There’s the music rights as well, isn’t there?” asked Mrs Hudson determinedly into the pregnant silence, and the conversation ploughed on into the use of the old Gladstone’s Collar and Collared songs in some of the book marketing, which had led to re-releases. Some of those royalties went to the Collared band members, seeing as one set of recordings was from an album they’d originally done for a police charity.

All in all, John wasn’t worried in the slightest about getting bored during retirement.

“We’ve been getting sent film treatments and God knows what all,” he said and, remembering, he went to the bookshelf and pulled out the envelope he had stowed there the previous day. “I forgot about this one.”

Violet grabbed it off him in delight, opened it and skim read the first few pages before she started to laugh again. John sighed.

“What is it this time? Not Sherlock Holmes and the Modern Jack the Ripper again, because I’ve seen about thirty of those already.”

“Oh _noooooo_ ,” said Violet, sniggering. She passed the wad of material to her mother, who giggled and passed it along to Molly, whose eyes widened in delight.

Greg leaned over her shoulder to see. “The Great Detective: a Musical!” he declared in mingled wonder and horror.

The next thing, the document was being split up and shared around the room. John and Sherlock exchanged a helpless look and girded themselves to endure the inevitable.

“Oh look!” squeaked Molly excitedly “They’ve got you singing _I’m Not Alright_ over a dead body!”

“At a _crime scene_? Ridiculous,” Sherlock scoffed, “We never sang at crime scenes. Stakeouts, occasionally, but only when I was very bored.” Nobody but John knew whether he was serious, and John was not telling.

“Oh, and here’s a dance routine using _Illuminated_ ,” hooted Tad, “In a _dream sequence_.”

“Why did they send a hard copy?” Ford asked as he peered at the handful of papers he held, then nodded. “Of course. You must get so many of these digitally, you just delete them. Hardcopies these days are unusual enough that it might actually incite you to read the thing.” Then he frowned. “This is a kissing scene. With Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighed. He tried to avoid this element of John’s writing career, he really did, but it sometimes refused to be avoided. It wouldn’t be the first time some inane scriptwriter had tried to saddle the fictional him with a fictional love interest. “Who is it _this_ time? Some _femme fatale_ cat burglar? An American spy? A sex robot from the sixth dimension?” All of which had appeared in previous scripts they’d seen.

“John.” Ford frowned, read it again.  “No, definitely John.”

John sighed this time. “We get one or two of those a year. I don’t usually tell you about those ones,” he said at Sherlock’s look, “Wouldn’t want to clutter up your mind palace.”

And then John and Sherlock exchanged a look, half resigned, half amused and wholly as if there was some private joke going on.

“You weren’t ever a couple, were you?” asked Charlotte at last, because she had known them the shortest period of time and had never quite grasped the dynamic.  
  
"No," they replied, in unison of course, which as usual was doing nothing for their case.  
  
"Never even kissed," said John, but he was grinning.  
  
"Except that one time," Sherlock corrected him, emphatically.

They both stopped to listen to the huge breathless pause in the room. Goodness knows why they had apparently mutually decided to make this revelation today, but then, a thirtieth anniversary might as well be a good time to memorably surprise one’s friends and family yet again.  
  
"Oh. Yes,” conceded John, “Except for that one time."  
  
Not for the first time in their long friendship, John seriously wished he was able to take a photograph of Greg Lestrade's expression for later entertainment. Actually, a group portrait right about now would be something to treasure for the rest of his days.  
  
"For a case," Sherlock expanded, "One of those gay cruise ships. Turned out to be very boring."  
  
Greg made a sound like he was untangling his tonsils then asked with a slight squawk: "The case or the kiss?"  
  
"Both."  
  
John managed to look rueful. "Not my best work, no. Too distracted by the weirdness." He cast a wry grin at Sherlock. "I just closed my eyes and thought of Sigourney Weaver."  Sherlock cocked a haughty eyebrow at him. "Well," challenged John, "Who did you think of?"  
  
"England," Sherlock shot back, all cold and aloof, but a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as John giggled and said:  
  
"Of course you did."

“So,” said Greg. “So. So. So. Um. So. Was it? Um. Did it?”

“About as erotic as kissing my sister,” said John.

“Or Mycroft,” said Sherlock with an expressive look of disgust. Mycroft, for his part, gave a less than delicate shudder.

“Needs must on a case, though, right?” John said, “And it still wasn’t as strange as that time we went undercover at the Cirque de Soleil.”

And then the afternoon rolled on into the early evening with more stories, and a return to the music. Taddy, who had missed the new songs yesterday, was delighted to find John and Sherlock bringing out their instruments for a reprise.  

_Half of what they say about us isn’t true, nor half the lies they weave_ _  
_And half of what is true about us, nobody would believe_ _

They’d grinned like loons at that couplet from _Never Sunset_. Nobody doubted that the pair of them still had secrets to share one day.

After watching Tad’s fingers tap against a chair arm for a while, Chris found his bodhran drum in the back of the car and gave Tad a quick lesson in holding it with his damaged right hand and playing with the left.  And my god, didn’t Tad take to it like a duck to water. The next thing, Molly had taken over Ford’s keyboard, Greg grabbed Chris’s bass guitar, Tad nutted out a few drum beats and the five of them launched into some Collared classics.

In due course, Mary fetched crystalware and champagne and in the early winter evening, glasses were raised in toasts.

To absent friends and family.

To Harry Watson, with whom John had finally reconciled, but whose liver had failed her eight years ago.

To John’s mother, who had taught him to play the guitar and whose legacy of music, love and courage he tried to pass on to his own daughter.

And to Mike Stamford, who started it all thirty years ago this very day, by bringing together two men who never thought to find someone who’d tolerate living with them for more than a week, let alone three astonishing decades.  Gone, but never forgotten. John’s first book had been dedicated to him, while Mike was still around to appreciate it.

Finally, John raised his glass to the people in this house.

“To my family,” he said, taking in Mary and Nirupa, Violet and Ford, the Andersons, the Lestrades, Mrs Hudson and her nurse, Sally and Mycroft. John’s gaze settled on Sherlock’s face. “To all of you. Thank you for being with us all these years; and for being with us today. I think no two men have ever been luckier with the people in their lives. That you all made the time to come this weekend means the world to us.”

The emotion-charged silence held for a moment before Sherlock added: “You are all the least tedious people I have ever known. Thank you for not being too appalling. ” It had the desired effect of breaking the mood from verge-of-tears to laughter.

Then there was hugging, which Sherlock found frankly horrifying, so he tolerated it for a long as four hugs before practically leaping behind Mrs Hudson’s wheelchair for shelter. He sat on a stool again, leaning lightly against her thin legs and allowing her to pat his hand while people reached over to thump his shoulder with enthusiasm and affection.

“You like it really,” she whispered to him with a laugh.

“No I don’t,” he gritted back, “I abhor it.”

“Silly boy.” She patted his hand some more, then his hair. He sighed and tolerated it, because. Well. Because she was Mrs Hudson.

At last, people began to depart. Mary and Nirupa were taking Violet and Ford to London to stay at 221B for a few days (with everyone very pointedly not pointing out the logical sleeping arrangements). Mycroft and Sally were off to catch a plane to Thailand, though whether for business or pleasure they would not divulge. Knowing those two, it might well have been both. Lestrades and Andersons all had homes, jobs and lives to get back to come Monday.

Barton said goodbye in bee talk, which did much to calm Sherlock’s agitation. Sherlock buzzed a solemn reply and then gave Tad a poisonous glare, daring him to comment. Tad simply grinned indulgently. Sherlock thought that was almost worse.

Slowly, the cottage emptied. John helped Nurse Kelly settle Mrs Hudson in the spare room again – everyone agreed that she needed a whole night’s rest before the long trip back to her nursing home in the morning.

Finally, quiet at last, it was just John and Sherlock in the living room. John picked up his guitar, flopped onto the sofa and started plucking out a tune.

“Your gift is in…” he began.

“Your office. Behind the picture of your mother on top of the filing cabinet. I know.”

“Do you know what it is?”

“Actually… no.”

“Score one for Doctor Watson!”

John continued to play the familiar melody while Sherlock went to John’s study. He returned with two parcels. John eyed the second with puzzlement.

“Your gift,” said Sherlock, “I hid it in your office as well.”

“And I didn’t find it?”

“No. Score one for Sherlock Holmes.”

John put the guitar down and picked up the large, wrapped box while Sherlock dropped down onto the sofa with the smaller package in his long-fingered hands. Then, after their natures, John neatly and methodically undid the wrapping on the large box while Sherlock shredded the wrapping on his gift like a pig looking for truffles.

Being first to achieve his goal, Sherlock spent some time examining the two off-white spheres embedded in a fossilised shell.

John saw him pause. “They’re…”

“Fossil pearls. I know. Very rare.”

“I thought…”

“Pearls are gems created when an impurity is introduced to a mollusc, which coats the impurity with nacre. They’ve been around for millions of years.”

“Greg kept saying the thirty year anniversary was pearls. So. Yeah. These are about 83 million years old. I guess… they made me think of us.” John paused, feeling suddenly a bit stupid.

Sherlock traced a finger over the ancient pearls. Things of beauty built up over years and years, formed because one unexpected element kept the lining of the shell active and reactive. Things of beauty preserved and lasting for millennia. They made Sherlock think of Never Sunset again. “I see why. Yes. Thank you.” He smiled at John.

John blew out a breath, then finished opening his gift. Discarding the paper, a polished wooden box was revealed. He opened it to find a matching pair of pearl-handled revolvers.

“They belonged to Annie Londonderry,” said Sherlock, “She started off to circumnavigate the world on a bicycle with these in 1894. I thought you might appreciate their provenance. A bold spirited adventurer, very unusual for her time. They’ve been restored to perfect working order, you’ll find. I thought you might like to take them shooting some time.”

“They’re beautiful,” said John, taking one of the guns out to inspect it thoroughly.

They each laid their gift on the coffee table, side by side, and regarded the treasures fondly.

“I really am very lucky,” said John.

“So you said.”

“I mean it. When I was sent home from Afghanistan, I didn’t have anything. Not a thing. I was broke, alone and useless. My military career was in tatters and I didn’t know if I still had a medical career because my hand wouldn’t stop shaking. I had a gammy shoulder and a psychosomatic limp. And then Mike introduced me to you. And…” his eyes crinkled in a reminiscent smile, “Suddenly I had purpose again.  Something that needed everything I was, not just parts of me.” John’s hand strayed over the guitar strings. “And then you found out about Gladstone’s Collar, and you wouldn’t let it go. You gave me back something I didn’t even know I’d lost.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, but John hadn’t expected him to. Overt sentiment was not Sherlock’s department. Instead, John lifted the guitar into his lap and began playing the same melody again.

“What is that?” Sherlock asked.

John smiled. “The Beatles.”

The Beatles were also generally not Sherlock’s department. “What are the words?”

John really should have been ready for that question. But what the hell. It was the anniversary of their extraordinary friendship, and John had been writing songs about that friendship for almost all of those years together. What did it matter if his cup of sentiment runneth over with someone else’s words tonight?

 _There are places I remember_  
All my life, though some have changed  
  


He sang gently through the first verse, and Sherlock said nothing. Instead, he regarded the fossil pearls thoughtfully.

 _But of all these friends and lovers_  
There is no one compares with you  
  


Couple-schmouple, thought John. You can love someone without fancying them. You can love them like a part of your own soul, whether or not you desire them physically.  
  
 _Though I know I'll never lose affection_  
 _For people and things that went before_  
 _I know I'll often stop and think about them_  
 _In my life I love you more_

He finished the song. Put down the guitar. Dropped his head against the back of the sofa and released a contented sigh.

Sherlock pivoted on the sofa, shoving his back against John’s arm and bringing his feet up to the seat. Thus taking up more than his share of the space, as per standard operating procedure, Sherlock tipped his head back against John’s shoulder and wriggled to get more comfortable. John grinned.

“You have kept me sane,” said Sherlock unexpectedly into the companionable silence, “And grounded. You’ve done more than save my life. You have given me one.” Sherlock waved his hand at the vacant room, so recently crowded with people. “I do not believe I would have had any of this without you. This…” he paused, searching for the word.

“Family,” said John.

“Yes. This family.” Sherlock turned his head on John’s shoulder to look up into John’s blue eyes. “I never expected this. I was not the type of person who could have had this. But, I have it, now. Thank you.”

John gazed fondly down into sharp grey eyes. In that still moment was thirty years of danger and excitement, purpose and comradeship, music and silence, fear and sorrow, fighting and forgiveness and gratitude, and all kinds of love.

Impulsively, John grabbed Sherlock’s head and ruffled the curly hair before planting a noisy kiss on his forehead.

“Happy anniversary, you magnificent bastard,” he grinned, then let go.

Sherlock looked like a disgruntled cat who had just been licked affectionately by a slobbering St Bernard. He butted against John’s shoulder with his hard head, then burrowed down into the sofa and against John’s side, getting more comfortable.  Then he smiled.

“And Happy Anniversary to you, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the fossil pearls [ here ](http://www.paleosearch.com/4162.html)  
> Read about Annie Londonderry [ here ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Annie_Londonderry)
> 
> The Beatles song John sings at the end of The Anniversary is 'In My Life'.  
> The full lyrics for Never Sunset, quoted twice during the party, are [ here ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/505340).
> 
> The Guitar Man universe is not quite done with me yet. It keeps insisting I write ficlets and drabbles to fill in some of the last 30 years under the umbrella title 'Songs in the Key of (221)B'. 
> 
> If you have suggestoins for what you'd like to see, visit [The First Shipment ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/514315) and write your ideas in the comments.

**Author's Note:**

> The song is Lanae' Hale's Let’s Grow Old Together. [Listen to it on YouTube ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kQz8ZdVRjSs)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The First Shipment](https://archiveofourown.org/works/514315) by [ihnasarima](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ihnasarima/pseuds/ihnasarima)




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